The Importance of Names
by Squinterian
Summary: The Meyvn of the Youth League and the difficulty of some things.


_The Importance of Names_

(This is a companion piece to _Of Walls and Windows_ and _One, Two, Three, Four, Five_.)

* * *

_We humbly request that honoured Meyvn Nooj… _

He brought his good hand to squeeze the ridge of his nose, with the vain idea of smiting down the beginnings of a headache. His other hand moved to draw a scribble at the bottom of the text.

Scratch, scratch.

The pen scraped across the paper, leaving a blotted line behind. The tip was getting worn. He decreased the pressure by raising his hand slightly, and his shoulder responded with a sharp pang of pain. Too much work for muscles that weren't made for such fine-tuning.

It had taken him a long time, mastering a way to move his stiff, dead limb so that it allowed him to produce something akin to a signature. It was the only thing he had not learned to do passably with his right hand. He could write with it – or scrawl clumsy letters that were always slightly off the line – but he couldn't sign with it. At least not without the result looking like a five-year-old had been playing with a pen.

… _is felt among the troops that choosing a name for the new Youth League vessel should be entrusted to none other than our leader. The naming ceremony is of great import to the common spirit of the League…_

Ah, the vessel. It had been in the dock for a couple of months now, upgraded to better suit the needs of the organisation. The launch was due in a couple of days, and half the League seemed to be in a state of frenzy over it, like children before festivities. And although Nooj didn't personally cherish such occasions, he understood their importance.

Choosing a name for the vessel, however, was another matter. Had it been his ship, the choice would have been easier. It might have been the_ Lament_, or _Depressor_, or perhaps _Immersible_. However… such names, while fitting to his ear, would hardly have inspired the common League member. For someone who valued his life, sailing on the _Immersible_ might not bethe mostempowering experience in their life.

Perhaps he would ask Lucil for a suggestion later.

He sometimes wondered about the point of holding such ceremonies. Regardless of what he named the ship, the moment it set sail it would be tagged with all kinds of nicknames by the people who had – or didn't have – dealings with it, until the point was reached where its original name would become mere curiosity without any practical value.

Like had happened with him.

_Meyvn Nooj_._ Nooj the Fearless. Nooj the Undying_._ Nooj, the legendary Crusader who survived even Sin_.All those, just names given to him by people who didn't really know him. Very inaccurate names at that.

Except for _Nooj the Deathseeker_. Deathseeker was perhaps the one that hit closest to target, but it, too, lacked shape and meaning. Fearless in battle, they said…

_Nooj the Hopeless_ might have been more accurate. Or _Nooj the Miserable_.

He placed the document next to a small pile on his right and took up another one from the considerably higher pile on his left. The paper sent a tiny gust of air spiralling into his face as he brought it down on the table.

Monthly report on the fiend activity in region B5, starting on 21st… 

The room he worked in had a smell of its own, a peculiar mixture of fresh sea air, old canvas, and gun oil. Sometimes, especially on warm afternoons, the scent would shift ever so slightly, so that there seemed to be a hint of hot sand mingling in as well. Whenever that happened, it took him back in time, far away from the paper-signing, planning and speech-giving that occupied most of his time nowadays. Being a leader had all turned out a lot harder than he ever could have imagined when he'd first thought of uniting the opposition.

_"Chill out, Noojster. All you gotta do is shut up and look important and you'll fit the part."_

'Noojster' – another name he'd been granted. There had been very little he could do about that one, either, as the Al Bhed was notorious for his habit of inventing names and sticking to them. Baralai, surprisingly, had been the only one to escape without having a cheesy nickname permanently tacked on him. Paine had had to suffer the endless repetition of 'Dr. P.', against which 'Noojster' didn't seem half bad.

He missed the stupid nickname. He even missed hearing his name as it was, short of any title or tone of reverence.

_An envoy from Kilika is due to arrive on the seventh day after the planned launch, at which time we should be able…_

He would never have admitted it, but shifting through all the documents was a deadly dull chore. It made him wonder if it was actually possible to die of boredom. _That_ would have been a way to go.

"_So why?"_ Paine had asked, the words twisting themselves in his head like one of Gippal's irksome rhymes until they sounded like, _"Don't die."_

He'd been angry that she had seen his vulnerability, caught him in a moment that he never liked others to see. And as though that hadn't been enough, she had been the one to shoot the beast that had been about to devour him. And then she had hit him around the head with 'Nooj the Undying'.

"_It's my life to throw away,"_ he'd snapped. The alarmed voices of his comrades had rung in his ears, calling out his name, as he had limped away from them. The childishness of his behaviour had been apparent to him even then.

But, 'Undying'… The word seemed like a mockery, suggesting that the one thing he yearned more than anything was forever out of his reach. So very easy to everyone else, impossible to _Nooj the Undying_. And most people acted as though this failure was worthy of deep respect.

He sighed heavily and shifted his metal leg under the table. It was pressing uncomfortably into what was left of his own. A vein was throbbing against the solid cast, more insistent by each passing moment, until it threatened to drown out all coherent thought.

Strange as it might seem, he always felt better standing up than sitting. Lying down was the worst, because with his artificial limbs, he was much like an upended tortoise, helplessly twitching on the ground until he finally managed to flip himself over. Just thinking about it made him feel sick.

Nooj the Lame.

He reached for another document, finding that his fingers closed around an envelope instead.

_Meyvn Nooj of the Youth League_ was written on it in bold, looping arcs that covered half of the front. Although there was no sender's signature, he could immediately tell whom it was from. Even if the o's hadn't been stylised as little hearts or the ink been an obnoxious shade of magenta, the heavy scent of perfume wafting from the envelope made its origin unmistakably clear. He reached for a paper knife, somewhat irrationally relieved that she opted for a formal title instead of 'Noojie-Woojie'.

He had once, unfortunately, overheard Leblanc using that name of him. No matter how hard he tried to forget that, it seemed that the name had lodged itself firmly in his head and refused to be banished. Being called something like 'Undying' was both tiresome and irating, 'Meyvn' was simply tiresome, 'Noojster' had been manageable, but '_Noojie-Woojie_'… Suffice to say that words failed him.

He put the letter aside, next to the pile of unfinished documents. On the second thought, he really didn't feel up to dealing with it right now. Considering it was from Leblanc… that woman periodically spouted a lot of other things that made 'Noojie-Woojie' seem mild in comparison. He decided to take his chances with her writing later on.

Although he didn't know why, after meeting Leblanc he would occasionally find his usual train of morbid thoughts interrupted by an alien voice cooing inside his head. It sounded distractingly much like her. Although she was a strange and somewhat disturbing character, and that name she'd given him was probably the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard, these incidents always left him in a state of befuddlement. He would find staring at the wall, trying to remember what it was he had been thinking about before the cooing started. He didn't know what to think of it – or of _her_ – so he'd decided that the best thing to do was to leave it all the hell alone.

The day wore slowly on and the pile of papers to be read and signed receded until finally, there was just one, single sheet left. He was halfway through it when his solitude faced an invasion in the form of a serious, red-headed commander.

"Paperwork all day again?" Lucil asked as she pulled open the window flap, letting fresh air in. "Pardon me for interfering, Sir, but being confined indoors like this can't be very good for you."

"That's all right," Nooj waved her off, avoiding the remark on his well-being as usual. This was already an established routine, with Lucil tactfully suggesting a number of things for his benefit and Nooj just as tactfully ignoring them all.

Eyes landing on Leblanc's letter, he picked it up and stashed it away quickly before Lucil could see it. He knew she would refrain from commenting even if she were to find his desk littered with a collection of questionable sphere stills, but the thought of anyone seeing his name spelled out in bold, loopy magenta letters – with large, stylised o's – still made him feel acutely uneasy.

"I did want to see you, though," he continued once the discriminating piece of evidence was safely out of sight. "I was hoping that you could help me with something."

"Of course, Sir," Lucil said, turning to face him and folding her arms behind her back, the epitome of a steadfast, ever reliable officer. "I would be glad to be of assistance."

Nooj, however, had become distracted. The fresh air that had been let in when Lucil opened the flap had that particular tinge again, the one that always brought back things he wasn't sure if he was holding on to or trying to forget. It mingled with the scent of the perfume from Leblanc's letter, creating the oddest combination.

"Never mind," he said. "I think already have it."

The name of the ship would be _Recollection_.

* * *

fin 


End file.
